


You're That Desperate?

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [113]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Beaches, Business Trip, M/M, Pining, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 06:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15701676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Steve knows the night’s going to hell when Tony makes a hard left into incoming traffic.





	You're That Desperate?

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Fluff. Prompt from this [generator](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/prompts).

Steve knows the night’s going to hell when Tony makes a hard left into incoming traffic.

“What the fuck--!” Steve wheezes, flailing, squeezing his eyes shut and bracing for the screech, the inevitable, horrible crash.

But there isn't one because it’s Tony Stark and Stark isn’t the kind of guy that has accidents; he’s too good-looking and rich and fucking full of himself for there to be so much as a scratch on the Porsche as it whips into a tiny parking lot and curves into a spot.

“You were saying, Rogers?” Tony smirks at him, face lit up by a flickering streetlight. “Or were you just screaming?”

It takes Steve a minute to swallow, to uncurl his fists from their death grip on the leather seat. “I thought we were going back to the hotel.”

“Mmm, we are. But I need a drink. And you need like twelve. You’ve had a stick up your ass all day.”

“I have _not_ ,” Steve says. God, what is it about talking to Tony that turns him into a five-year old?

Tony shakes his head, decisive. “Nope, you totally have. Which is fine, you know, on your own time; go shove a tree up there if you want. But if you’re with me, I insist that you have a good time for at least ten minutes a day. Don’t go nuts. Just like, smile every once and awhile.”

“You don’t pay me to smile, Mr. Stark. You pay me to make sure you don’t make some terrible, unthinking mistake that the stockholders get stuck with.”

Stark laughs, _laughs_ , like everything Steve has just said is some fucking hilarious joke. “Oh god,” Tony says, “You’re my Chief Risk Officer, not my priest, Steve. Unless you are secretly a man of the cloth and just haven’t bothered to tell me. Wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest.”

Steve feels his face go to 11, the heat reaching up to his hair. “Can we just get a drink already so we can go? We have a 7:30 with Deutsche Bank and I’d like to get at least a few hours sleep.”

“You really are an old man, aren’t you?” Tony reaches for the door and makes a big show of rolling his eyes. “It’s not even midnight yet. Christ.”

He bangs out of the car and Steve follows, huffing a little as he slides out into the warm, muggy air. They’re a lot closer to the beach than he thought; he can hear the rustle of the waves even over the music wafting out from the bar. It feels like rain still, like it has all afternoon, the breeze kicking steady against Steve’s bare legs. Tony had insisted that he wear shorts. Tony had insisted that he come down from his room after dinner so they could, quote unquote, go out for a drive. Tony had insisted that the air out on the island would be great for Steve’s headache, insisted that what Steve really needed was not another handful of Advil but simply, somehow, to relax.

It’s hard to resist Tony when he’s like that, effusive and bouncy and arms wide open to the world. It’s what makes said world love him--the board of his company, not so much--and even though Steve likes to think that he’s immune, he knows that he isn’t.

Worse, _worse_ , oh far fucking worse, that kind of behavior, nights like tonight, they only serve to intensify Steve’s woeful crush on the man whose name is on the building he works in, who virtually signs all his checks; who, for all of his jibes, relies on Steve’s judgement when it comes to what’s too risky, too out there, and what’s not. Tony listens to Steve, he trusts him, throws an arm around him sometimes in the elevator, and somehow, Steve’s love-starved brain has translated all that into fodder for a truly embarrassing crush.

Everybody loves Tony Stark. That’s kind of his thing. Why should Steve be any different? It’s just his way, he tells himself when it gets really bad, when they’re at lunch or on the plane and Tony’s mouth is going a mile a minute in someone else’s direction and his eyes flick over to Steve, give him a quick _you believe_ _this guy_? smile, and Steve’s heart does an eager, electric somersault and he looks away, quick, before Tony sees him smile back.

Tony smiles at everybody like that, talks at them, effusive. It doesn’t mean anything.

“Yo,” Tony says from the other side of the car, halfway to the bar, “Rogers. You coming or what? No judgment; you can totally stand out here in the heat while I drink.”

Steve moves his ass and when they’re at the door, asks: “Why this place?”

“Why this place what?”

“We passed a dozen places that were open. Why’d you risk our lives to get to this one?”

Tony grins and props his back against the open door, points. “That’s why.”

There’s a sign at the edge of the road, lit up with the bar’s name--the Social Club--and a block-letter message: CUTEST STAFF IN TYBEE.

“Seriously?” Steve says, incredulous. “You’re that desperate to ogle?”

That gets him an eyebrow. “You rather I ogle you?”

Something in Steve’s gut freezes. “I, uh--"

Another smirk, a Tony Stark special. “That’s what I thought. So shut up, Rogers, and let me leer."


End file.
